Mark's Struggle: How Did He Get Here?
by BethHayes
Summary: The filmmaker's schedule on another day in 1989: Get up and dread what bohemian life has in store. Get sick. Go to work. Get sent home early. Get mugged. Fight the internal battle of thoughts he's had lately. What are they about you ask? Life after Bohemia. Who'll take care of Roger Davis? You could imply Mark/Roger if you want. Feedback appreciated! Sorry for the sucky summary.


Mark stirred and shifted his position in bed. His back gave a loud _CRACK_ , making him groan. Deciding to open his eyes, the filmmaker squinted at the blinds. They let sunlight seep through the open spaces; the rays bathing his bed sheets in an orange glow.

"Ugh... Work..." Mark drawled. He was feeling sick to his stomach and was in no mood to move away from the warmth his mattress provided. A dull throbbing began to make itself known in his temples. Sitting up, he hissed in pain before walking to the bathroom for a warm shower. However, every other early bird in the city had the same idea and Mark ended up icy cold. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he trekked back to his room in search of heavy clothes. Once dressed, he met eyes with a certain ex-junkie.

"Mornin'," Roger mumbled as he stood in Mark's doorway.

"Hey," he replied lamely due to his head feeling like it had been trampled on.

"I came in here to laugh at you."

"Why?"

"I got up extra early to take the warm shower. So ha," the rocker made a feeble attempt at a joke. Mark chuckled anyway.

"Coffee?" He asked his best friend as a conversation starter.

"Do I ever refuse?" Roger smirked and led the way to the kitchen.

After the coffee was brewed, Roger sat on the window sill silently, taking in the New York sunrise. Mark sat at the makeshift countertop, mumbling to himself about the useless, trashy tabloids that had found their way into the Village Voice. Mark coughed violently after taking a few sips of the liquid caffeine. Roger broke out of his trance.

"Hey, man. You okay?"

"Hmm?" The man played dumb. "Oh. Yeah, I'm fine." He coughed again. Roger shook his head and turned his attention back to the window.

At 7:30, Mark stood up a bit too abruptly and black spots danced in front of his fading vision. He lost his balance and stumbled to the sink, gripping the metal like a lifeline. Roger had flown up from his previous spot to help his best friend. At this point, tears were clouding the strawberry blonde's vision. Whether or not it was from the thought of biking 5 blocks to Buzzline or his ever increasing headache, Mark was unsure.

Roger eased the mug out of the filmmaker's grasp and steadied him with a firm hand.

"Mark."

'Oh no,' he thought. 'I know that tone.' A warning. "Yeah?"

"Do you have a headache?"

"Um... A bit."

"When'd it start?"

"When I woke up this morning."

"Do you have a stomach ache?" The songwriter slipped his free arm around Mark's waist and set a hand on his middle. He squirmed and hummed in dislike. "Hmm." Roger began to think. He turned Mark to face him and leaned down; his soft lips brushed against his best friend's forehead: running a temperature.

The filmmaker closed his eyes and allowed himself to relax in Roger's embrace. That's all the proof Roger needed. The usual 'don't worry about me, take your AZT' Mark was MIA at the moment. "Marky, are you tired?" He teased as he pulled away. The man whined, most likely because of the loss of contact. "You gonna go to work today?"

Mark gasped, eyes flying open. Being pulled out of his daze caused him to nearly fall over again. Roger laughed.

"I gotta be to work in 20 minutes!"

"Mark, you're not feeling well..." He was halfway out the door.

9 pm rolled around. No sign of Mark. Roger sighed. 11 pm. No sign of Mark. Roger paced the living room. 1 am. No Mark. Roger was on the streets, wanting to shout his name but couldn't because it would draw attention. 3 am. Roger gave up. He was on the way back to the loft when he heard someone whisper his name. Mark lay in the middle of the sidewalk. His face was scraped and beginning to bruise, hands were bloodied, clothes torn dramatically. No bike. No camera. Roger ran to him, kneeling down and taking care of concealing his body from the chilly November air. He wrapped his leather jacket around Mark's shoulders. "Mark, can you walk?"

"Yeah, yeah. I think so," the man spoke softly and struggled to maintain a suitable standing position. He took a few shaky steps and fell. Roger gently hauled him up by the arm. Mark collapsed again. It wasn't until two blocks away from the loft that the rocker couldn't stand seeing Mark continue to fall. The filmmaker was becoming physically and mentally exhausted and didn't have enough strength to keep himself up. He slipped a hand under his best friend's legs and around the small of his back, and began to carry him back to the loft. Mark's head lolled as Roger bounced him in an effort to keep him conscious. He was gripping Roger's warm leather and took a deep breath. The scents of cigarettes, alcohol, and cologne all rushed to his head, making his headache return. He didn't mean for a moan to escape his lips from the embarrassment of being carried and the fact he was in pain. The songwriter leaned down to whisper in Mark's ear.

"It's okay, baby. Shhh. I've got you," Roger soothed. The strawberry blonde blushed deeply at his words but felt safe and tired. He let go for a moment before being jostled onto the couch.

 _'Wait... weren't we just outside?'_ Mark was thinking to himself. He blinked wearily and saw nothing but the crumbling ceiling.

"Roger?" He tried to speak but found he couldn't. Mark began to panic. _Did Roger leave? Is Collins here? Did anyone call Maureen? Wait..._ He heard someone; someone coming closer. They knelt next to him and he turned his neck to see a familiar face. "Mimi?" The man barely mouthed.

"Hey, babe," she answered his silent call. "How're you feeling?"

"Okay? Where's Roger?" Mark questioned hurriedly.

"He's showering, Mark. He's only been gone for two minutes." He blinked. Images from that night rushed back to his head, making him cringe. Tears blurred his vision even more so without his glasses on. Mimi continued to kneel there, running her fingers through his dirty hair. He hiccuped and nearly broke down when Roger came out in a towel, telling Mimi to get some sleep. She had, after all, just got back from working a shift at the Cat Scratch Club and looked exhausted. They shared a quick kiss goodbye and she stooped down to place one on Mark's forehead. Smiling a sincere sympathetic smile, the dancer made her way out the door.

"Hanging in there?" Roger questioned his best friend only to find he had fallen asleep. He took this as a free moment to get dressed before helping Mark. Pulling on a sweatshirt and sweat pants, he rifled through his best friend's drawers to find some suitable heavy clothes. All he turned up with was a thin, kid-sized looking t-shirt and a pair of Collins' sweatpants he must've left behind. Sighing, Roger fidgeted to pull off his sweatshirt, putting on a long sleeve and his jean vest instead.

"Mark," Roger tried to wake the cameraman up. He stirred and opened his eyes blearily.

Roger smiled. "What don't we get you out of those clothes, huh? Aren't you cold?"

"No, not really," Mark mumbled. A chill ran up his spine. He shivered.

"Uh huh. C'mon. Stand up," the songwriter urged. The filmmaker sighed and sat up on the couch, his head pounding in protest to any kind of movement. Despite the disapproval, he slowly rose and began pulling off Roger's coat and his threadbare shirt. He tried to hide the difficulty of such a simple task but was failing miserably. Roger saw every wince. He wanted to reach out and help him but something was holding him back, though he wasn't sure what. He was trapped in these thoughts until he saw his best friend's cut hands shaking. Reaching forward, the rocker shooed his hands away. "Arms up," Roger prompted. Picking up the sweatshirt, he slid it over Mark's thin form, trying to be as gentle as possible. He undid the filmmaker's belt buckle that looked as if it'd been hurriedly put on the previous morning. The filmmaker's pants fell down immediately. _'How much weight has Mark lost? Holy shit...'_ Roger thought then gasped. "Did they... whip you?" Mark held in a sob.

"Yeah. They took off my belt and that's why my pants were torn." Roger didn't know what to say. Until now, he also hadn't noticed Mark's shoes had been taken. He was silent as Mark gripped his shoulders while he bent down, and slid the too-big sweatpants over the man's legs. They looked horrendous. Scattered, bright red angry marks were littered on each.

"You can take a shower tomorrow, okay? Just sleep for a while," The songwriter smoothed his best friend's hair down from the clothes that had ruffled it. Mark glanced up to him, lost; tearfully. Roger melted. "C'mere," he mumbled and held out his arms for Mark. The man stumbled forward and wrapped his arms around the rocker's waist. "Let it out," he soothed Mark and began to rub his back gingerly. The slow motion made Mark's tears fall steadily down his cheeks. A small sob escaped his lips and he hugged Roger's middle tighter. "It's okay Mark. You're safe now. Yeah..."

The filmmaker sleepily lifted his head off of his best friend's shoulder sometime later. The two had fallen victim to the uncomfortable couch a while ago; Mark was sitting next to Roger, the pretty boy front man who was holding him cautiously. Mark stood up suddenly, realizing what he'd just done. He swayed and Roger was on his feet in an instant, steadying him, hands holding Mark's small biceps.

"Are you feeling any better?" Roger asked instead of complaining his shirt was wet from Mark's tears. The filmmaker could barely form a thought, so he only nodded briefly. Roger's hands were warm and his voice mild. For the second time that night, Mark slipped out of consciousness in his best friend's arms.

 _'Roger. Roger was a good man... He saved me yesterday... Was it yesterday? I don't remember. Oh god I cried in front of him... Shit. What's he going to think of me now? Make up an excuse Mark... The mugging. The mugging sent me over the edge. Right; I remember what happened now... I was sick that morning and Alexi sent me home early... Oh my god Roger dressed me. Why the fuck didn't I conceal my pain better? Shit. Shit. Shi—'_

"Hey, Mark. Open your eyes."

A shadow. That voice. Mark opened his eyes. "There he is!" Roger teased. The man moaned and turned back over in his bed, immediately regretting it.

"Christ!" He yelled. His wound that had been carefully crafted in his cheek had brushed up against the fraying fabric of his pillow.

"Calm down, boy!" Collins commented from the doorway. "I thought you'd be happy to see me." He faked a pout while the man, with effort, managed a small smile.

"We didn't want you to sleep through dinner, Mark. We're having beer and Captain Crunch." Roger deadpanned. Mark laughed shallowly, then coughed horrendously.

"Ugh, well as wonderful as that sounds," Mark began, pushing himself up on his elbows in bed, "I think I'll pass."

"Are you sure?" Collins rose an eyebrow playfully.

"Yeah... I'm still really tired." Mark replied surely. Collins suddenly became aware of the worsening injury on Mark's face.

"Roger, did you clean out those wounds after you found him? They almost look infected."

"Uhhh... No. He kept falling asleep so I figured he could just shower today."

"Shit," the anarchist mumbled before rushing to the bathroom's medicine cabinet. The rocker held his head low when Collins came back in and growled at him. He sat on the opposite side of the bed not occupied by Roger and unscrewed the bottle of alcohol.

"This is gonna sting Mark," Collins warned. Mark rolled his eyes.

"No shit." He sucked in a breath and jerked his head as the liquid made contact with his skin.

"Hold still," the professor advised. Mark held back a groan and closed his eyes as the rest of the wound was cleaned with the damp washcloth. Collins held the side of his head gently and dabbed the gash tentatively. Next: Mark's hands. A stifled cry. After that, Mark's legs. Roger threw off the covers before removing the filmmaker's borrowed sweatpants and folding them less than neatly. A wail. A few stray tears hesitantly wiped away by Roger's calloused thumb. Minutes later, Mark had fallen into a fitful sleep. Roger and Collins, satisfied, left the bedroom.

Minutes passed by. Hours passed by. A day passed by.

"Rise and shine, Pookie!" Oh no. Please no. Not today.

"Go away, Maureen," Mark grumbled, feeling as unenthusiastic as he sounded.

"Roger and Collins said you've gotta take a shower." The bed dipped down slightly under the woman's weight. She began to run her finger's through his unwashed locks; this made a content sigh escape his lips unintentionally.

"I'll do it later," Mark whined and leaned into Maureen's touch.

"Now. C'mon, while they cook dinner," she argued. Mark obliged and rolled out of bed.

One cold shower later, Mark had gotten himself half dressed before Roger came in.

"Does anyone knock anymore?" Mark asked, faking annoyance. To please him, the songwriter backed up to the wooden frame and gave it a few light taps. Mark smiled. "You can come in." Roger rolled his eyes and picked up the shirt Mark had yet to struggle to put on. He shot Mark a knowing look and the man sighed deeply before raising his arms.

"Better to be clothed than cold," Roger mumbled as the fabric hugged itself around Mark's form.

"Thanks."

"Dinner's ready."

"Okay."

"Is something wrong?"

"I don't think so."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know."

"If you boys are done arguing," interrupted Maureen from the doorway, "we're already eating."

"What are we having anyway?" Mark wondered aloud.

"Well, you and I are having chicken soup and Roger and Collins went to the Life earlier so they've got leftovers."

"Hmm. Great."

"Are you sure you're okay?" Roger questioned after Maureen had left, concern lacing his voice.

"Can we go eat? I'm starving," Mark's eyes pleaded for escape.

"Yeah."

Despite Mark's earlier statement, he stirred his soup silently. With his hand resting on his cheek, he stared at it blankly, almost as if he was trying to see through it.

"Boy, I thought you'd be hungry after not eating for a few days," Collins commented on Mark's unusual behavior. The cameraman shrugged.

"My stomach kind of hurts," he replied. If it were possible, a lightbulb could be seen over Roger's head, switching on.

'Oh my god, I forgot you were sick!' Roger thought to himself. He grabbed the pepto bismol from the medicine cabinet and walked back to the kitchen.

Mark looked at him expectingly.

"You have to eat before you can have this," he said casually despite him wanting to give in to the filmmaker's pleading eyes.

Collins put his hand on Mark's back and rubbed it lightly. "Mark, when's the last time you ate?"

"I don't know..." He mumbled unsurely, brows knit together in thought. The anarchist wasn't looking for that answer and forced his friend forward.

"Eat. Don't make me call Angel." Imagining the earful he'd get from the drag queen, Mark shuddered.

"Okay."

"Ugh," Mark moaned as he writhed in bed; it was three o'clock in the morning and he hadn't fallen asleep yet. Suddenly, his stomach lurched and he jumped up, fully aware of what was about to occur. He didn't, however, count on his roommate heading for the same place.

"Mark?" The songwriter questioned cautiously before opening the door a crack. His best friend was kneeling in front of the toilet, dry heaving. Roger knelt beside him and began to pat his back.

"Breathe a bit, would ya?" The man chided. Mark rolled his eyes and finally, minutes later, sat up straight.

Roger was still there, rubbing his back. He handed Mark a washcloth, demanding the man clean himself up.

The ex-junkie stood a while later, extending an arm for his best friend to grasp.

"'M not movin'" Mark mumbled. "Still feel bad. Too tired."

"C'mon," Roger tried. "You can sleep on the couch tonight; it's closer to the bathroom." Mark shook his head slightly.

Said man argued weakly, "Stay here. It's cold."

"And it's the bathroom floor," Roger laughed. "Should I count to 3?" Mark looked at him, confused. "1...2..."

"What are you doing?" The filmmaker asked the songwriter lazily. Roger had picked him up, holding him close, and walked to the kitchen. After setting Mark down on the countertop, Roger filled up a glass of water and handed it to Mark.

"Drink." The cameraman obeyed as he began to walk to the couch. Roger retreated to Mark's bedroom to grab his blankets and excuse for a pillow. "Comfortable?" asked the AIDS stricken man.

"As I'll get," replied Mark with a subtle hint of sarcasm.

"That pepto bismol didn't help at all?"

"Did it sound like it?"

"Sorry I asked," Roger held his hands up in surrender. Mark sighed and sank deeper into his position on the couch, Roger sitting across from him on the coffee table. After a few silent moments, Roger clasped his hands together and asked, "You need anything else?"

"Mm... I don't think so..."

"Okay. Call if you need anything." Roger left. Mark cried. A few hours later, his shoulder was being shaken.

"Mark? We're you crying? You're still really warm," A cold hand was being draped across his forehead. It eventually slid down his non-injured cheek, caressing it softly.

"Mom?" He croaked out. Hesitation.

"Yeah, honey it's me."

"When'd you get here?" Mark would've opened his eyes to scan her face if only he could see without his glasses.

"Oh, a while ago," she answered dismissively. "I want you to go back to sleep, okay? You've got a high temperature, sweetheart." The filmmaker never remembered his mom using sappy nicknames with him but he brushed it off. He hummed in agreement. "Mom, my head hurts a—and my stomach and m-my scars."

"Aw, poor baby. You'll be better soon."

Cold. Mark's forehead was freezing. He reached up to remove the unexplainable compress but was stopped by a hand. He'd know those guitar playing fingers anywhere.

"Roger?"

"Yeah?"

"Hi."

The rocker smiled. "Hi. Hey, you've gotta leave that on. You've still got a temperature."

"Was my mom here earlier?"

"Uhhhh... Maureen was here this morning. Why?"

"The little shit," Mark mumbled, blushing furiously. Roger exploded with laughter.

"I-I wa-watched her!"

He groaned. "Why didn't you stop her?" Roger stopped laughing immediately.

"You were hallucinating..."

"Yeah? So?"

"I don't know why you were doing it, so we went along with it." Mark blinked in understanding and shifted his body to face his best friend.

"Did you hallucinate? You know... during withdrawal?"

Roger sat up a little straighter.

"Um..."

"Were they saying anything?"

"Yeah. You were telling me how much I had messed up but things were going to get better."

Realization hit Mark like a brick. "That was the night..." He thought aloud. Roger cut him off.

"I remember." Both men were silent for a while, the songwriter running his fingers through the filmmaker's hair absentmindedly.

"Are we ever going to talk about it?" Roger froze, stopping his hand in the middle of Mark's head. His eyes glazed over and his face became blank. Shaking his head, he smiled meekly and resumed his comforting action.

"No." Mark was to overtired to argue with the unwanted response. He barely noticed his roommate's coarse singing voice lulling him to sleep.

"Is he still not feeling well? Poor thing," Angel cooed at Mark's resting form late that afternoon. She was sitting in Collins' lap. Roger and Mimi were in the bedroom, sleeping after the latter had a fitful night. Withdrawal was taking a toll on her physically, mentally, and emotionally. Maureen and Joanne were making dinner in the kitchen. The group had planned on hanging out together that day but everyone was doing their own thing.

Soon, however, the rocker and S&M dancer woke up and joined their friends in the living room. While casually talking sometime later, they were startled when Mark began to cry in his sleep. At first he was silent, then his breathing began to hitch. Roger was the first to get up and shake his best friend's shoulder, calling out to him, before he could have a full out panic attack. When he only became louder, Collins rose with Angel to try and wake the man. Seconds later, with a gasp, Mark opened his unfocused, tearful eyes. He glanced around him.

"Talk to us, boy," the anarchist spoke clearly, calmly. The filmmaker had told him about the ex-junkie's withdrawal: these were the symptoms. Rules: stay calm, talk calmly. The cameraman hiccuped quietly; he couldn't speak. Collins sat him up and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Mark lifted his head to look at his best friend briefly before Roger got the message.

Hours later, the girls went out for drinks and left and the boys to talk. Mark hadn't moved from the couch since he had awaken earlier. They had tried to get him to eat something, but he refused. He looked beyond exhausted, as the sickness was wearing him down. Roger sat next to him on the duct taped furniture while the professor sat in their arm chair. Mark was hunched forward, hugging himself, struggling to keep his eyes open.


End file.
